


Window to the Soul

by almostbecamehistoric (capgal)



Series: Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capgal/pseuds/almostbecamehistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the moments before his death, Enjolras and Grantaire share a look. A look that changes everything. Sometimes a split second of eye contact is all you need to alter fate. One-sided E/R. Both Enjolras and Grantaire POVs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even close his eyes. He was frozen in place by the look in the piercing blue eyes. Those brilliant eyes—the heaven and hell of his life for so many years—met his dark, clouded ones with a look of mingled desperation, anger, and—could it be?—fear. And the worst part was, he didn’t know what the other man wanted. Was it desperation in the face of death, so alone, so vulnerable? Had he wanted a companion, however unworthy, in his last moments? Or did his angel fear for his worthless admirer, just awakening among the weight of dead bodies in the corner? The uncertainty froze him in place for a second—long enough for the gunshots to ring out and snatch the light from the crystalline eyes. Eight bullets ripped through the flawless marble statue, and it toppled against the wall—adamantly refusing to lie on the ground even in death.

With terrifying certainty, he realized he would never know the true meaning behind the look in those eyes, the last spark before they forever faded. Had the leader wanted a companion in death—however unworthy he may be? Or had he wanted just one of his precious Amis to survive—if he were dying, proud but broken, then the rest too must be dead—though he mattered the least of them all?

The doubt paralyzed him; the thought of failing the man one last time in his final moments twisted his heart—how had it not stopped beating with his angel’s?—and he could not breathe. He lay there, hidden among bodies, his vision gradually blurring as wet streaks coursed down his face. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the blue uniforms left and he stumbled out of the corner towards his god, splayed against the wall. The body was gracelessly propped up by the bullet-pocked wall, chest covered in blood, hand still clenched in that damned red flag. The matted golden curls obscured the angelic face, pushed against the wall by an unnatural bend in the neck. And yet his angel was glorious, strong and resplendent even in death.

He hugged the body close, hardly noticing the blood. He pushed the messy hair away, and did what he hadn’t dared while the other man was alive—he kissed the lifeless face. He could not bear to look at those eyes, empty and glassy without any trace of the fire that had sustained him. He wanted to scream and curse and yell and rage, but no sound came out of his mouth. Instead, he groped around blindly until the cool, deathly pressure of a slender barrel met his clammy hands. He grasped it as a drowning man grasped a rope. He pressed the cold tip against his temple, and clenched the trigger hard, welcoming the cruel invasion of a ball of lead.

Nothing came but an empty click. He tried, again and again and again, desperately hoping for a way out. The gun was empty, devoid of the only escape he wanted. Suddenly overcome by anger, he threw the gun across the room. It hit the far wall and clattered loudly to the floor, seeming to seeming to steal all the energy from his body with it. He slumped against the wall in a position reminiscent of his idol’s. Still unable to meet the unseeing gaze, he kissed the eyelids closed over the dull, staring eyes and gently laid the body back against the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping for a momentary respite from the painful sight, but they flew open almost immediately; beyond the eyelids lay the haunting blue eyes, looking at him with fear and despair—and accusation, cutting and painful, although some rational corner of his brain knew it hadn’t really been there. What he did know, as well as he’d known that beloved face, was that he had failed again. He only wished he knew how. Was it because he’d slept through the fight in a stupor? Because he did not stand at his angel’s side but survived? Because he had dared to think of ending their lives together? Whatever the reason, the last light in those bright blue eyes had been one of fear instead of hope or defiance, because of him.

It took every scrap of will left in him—he’d had little to begin with, and what meager store he possessed had died with the light of his life—to not hyperventilate. Alone, he was truly alone; even death had abandoned him. He crawled back to his corner and reached for the only friend now left to him. Taking a long, hard gulp of the burning absinthe, he silently made the first and last vow he ever kept: to live, for his fallen Apollo's sake--whatever that living entailed. 


	2. Enjolras

There was no hope; there had never been any hope, he knew now. Dawn had come, devoid of the light of tomorrow they’d strained so hard to see. He had wanted them to leave, to survive; they had people to go home to, lives to return to. He alone had to die atop the barricade; he had never planned for a life beyond this day, having known from the first day that he would not live to see the next morning. His blood and life alone would be enough; none more needed to be lost. Yet they had stayed. He had given then every opportunity to leave—even begged them, pleaded with them—but they had stood firm. If he would die, so would they; Patria’s most loyal servants would not betray her simply because death knocked at their doors.

And now—now they were dead. Not one was still breathing; he had seen and heard each one fall. Jehan, the romantic poet, executed on the wrong side of the barricade—his last words had been one of defiance and anger, so far removed from his usually soft-spoken praise of violets and stars. Marius, so happily and newly in love, fell early, shot in the head by one of the first volleys. Bahorel died as he had lived, fighting against the National Guard as if he could not possibly lose until the very last breath. Combeferre, his guide, his best friend, took a bullet for another as he tried to lead him to a corner for a brief moment of safety. Courfeyrac, the ever-laughing and playful centre, fell at the point of a bayonet with a cry of mingled pain, despair, and rage. Joly, the man who flinched away from a mere cough, died clutching a gun tightly in his grip, his bloodstained hands—covered in the blood of the many he had tried fruitlessly to save—-squeezing the trigger in one last angry protest as a bullet lodged in his chest. Feuilly, the nimble-fingered fan maker, was killed with his hands gripping a broken wooden pole rather than a paintbrush, his blood staining the boards under his feet as his paints once stained the fans. Lesgles, forever unlucky, missed the first step up the stairwell and was captured by the Guard, only to be executed as he stared in mute horror. 

And now, with nothing in his hand but the broken butt of a rifle and a tattered red flag, he welcomed death with open arms. Let it claim him; he would only meet his friends once more. He felt a twinge of guilt as their deaths flashed in front of his eyes, their faces twisted in the agony of death as light faded from their once-brilliant eyes. What he would give if only one could survive… It no longer had anything to do with the Cause; he had given all he had to give, not only his own life but also that of the men he held dearest to his heart. No, it was not about a continuation of the Cause but of Les Amis themselves. He could not help but wish, as he stared down the barrels of a dozen of the National Guard’s rifles, that just one would survive as to honour and remember the rest that had fallen. He cared not for his own name, his own life; but his faithful lieutenants deserved recognition, honour, memory, glory. Taking one final deep breathh he pushed the wistful thought away; it was hardly a becoming last thought. He steeled his body and mind for the blow that would take his life as he gripped the red flag tightly and raised it above his head. Let him die defending the revolution until the end; he owed that much to his fallen lieutenants. Let him die without fear or regrets; he owed that much to himself. 

A flash of movement caught the corner of his eyes. A body was stirring on the table behind the guardsmen. Time seemed to slow down as he stared, and the figure slowly looked up at him. Grantaire. How had he forgotten the drunkard? While he would not have been his first choice as the one to survive their stand, it hardly mattered now. They would have a survivor; his friends would be remembered and honoured as they should. But to his horror, the other man made a motion to stand. He was suddenly terrified. He could not bear to see the one chance at honour and memorial for his friends die worthlessly by his side. He looked at the awakening drunkard, desperately trying to order him to stand down. Perhaps it had worked; at the least, the skeptic hesitated for a moment. 

A loud volley wrenched its way into his awareness, and time resumed its normal course. Before he could tear his eyes away from the clouded dark ones, he felt the searing agony of bullets piercing his flesh. He was thrown backwards into the wall by the force of the shots. And still, he could not help a small smile that formed on his lips. As his thoughts faded into darkness, he reveled in the knowledge that he had succeeded in all he wished to do with his life; he was a martyr, and now he was free.


End file.
